Electric eye jingles an 8-bit interlude above the door. Octo-Gen with no teeth dodders in. Orders a hockey puck, so I burn one.

Behind the counter, flipping the burger. Synth-beef smells like octane. Octo-gen eyes an antique on the shelf. Faded decal on the side. “Historic Route 66”. Been there since I started here. Décor, I guess.